


Sunrises

by bluestbluetoeverblue



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 1940s, First Kiss, M/M, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-14
Updated: 2018-11-14
Packaged: 2019-08-23 18:24:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16624109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluestbluetoeverblue/pseuds/bluestbluetoeverblue
Summary: It's obvious. Can't you see? We belong to each other.





	Sunrises

The apartment is quiet, but the hum and noise of the city a few stories below the window covers the whispers. It is a hot summer, and the humidity is almost unbearable. Steve is sprawled on his back on the bare floor and can just make out Bucky’s form in the darkness. Twelve years old, they lay parallel to each other, mirrored images. Bucky’s feet stretch past Steve’s head, Steve’s lay next to Bucky’s chin. Bucky won’t stop raging about something Becca had done to pester him, but Steve doesn’t mind. The heat would keep him awake anyway, and he likes listening to Bucky complain. There is a lull in the story, and in the quiet that follows, Steve’s mind starts to wander to something he has been worrying over for a few weeks now.

“You’ve kissed a girl, right?” Steve asks, looking at the ceiling. For a second he thinks that Bucky has fallen asleep, but after a minute he responds.

“Course I have.”

“Was it fun?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, sounding uncertain. “I mean, I guess so. It was kind of strange, but I think it’s supposed to be like that.”

“Oh.”

“Why’d you ask that?”

“Well,” Steve pauses. “What if I don’t like it? Or I’m not any good at it?”

“My dad said it takes practice to be good at stuff like that.”

“How am I supposed to practice if none of the girls in the neighborhood want to?”

“They’re not supposed to tell you they want to, but they do. You just have to know.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Steve says. “Why wouldn’t they just say so if they want to?”

“I don’t know, that’s just what my dad said,” Bucky replies. “I guess it is kinda hard to know if they aren’t allowed to tell you.”

Neither boy says anything as this sinks in for a moment. Steve feels more confused than he did before. He is not even sure he _wants_ to kiss a girl, but he does know that they don’t seem to want to kiss him.

Bucky’s voice draws him out of his head: “We could practice if you want.” Steve sits up slowly, and Bucky is leaning on his elbows, looking at him.

“What?” Steve asks.

“We could practice. You know, so that when you do kiss a girl, you know what to do. If you want.” Steve has never heard his friend’s voice this hesitant before. He thinks it over. Kissing anyone sounds a little funny, but at least with Bucky he wouldn’t be embarrassing himself the first time.

“Okay,” he agrees.

They sit cross-legged, facing each other in the dim room. Steve can feel Bucky’s breath as he scoots forward and their knees bump. Bucky’s face is serious, so Steve tries to ignore how dry his mouth suddenly feels and leans forward. It only lasts a few seconds. Bucky’s lips are warm as they push against his. Steve sits with his eyes closed, waiting for something to happen, but then Bucky pulls back and nothing is different except for the warmth creeping up Steve’s neck.

Silence sits between them for a second. Steve stares at Bucky’s eyes, the blue of his irises not clear in the darkness. Steve thought it would be more, but he feels exactly the same as he did before. Bucky laughs, and Steve smiles back, any growing pressure in the atmosphere quickly dissipating.

“C’mon, I’m tired,” Bucky says, pushing his shoulder playfully, and they both lay back in the darkness, nothing and everything changed.

***

They take the shortcut home like always, cutting through a handful of alleyways to make it to Steve’s in half the time. They will have time to make trouble before Sarah comes home and starts supper, which Bucky will probably end up staying for again. Steve listens to the sound of their shoes hitting the pavement, realizes that he got punched by that dumpster last week, remembers the look on Buck’s face when he came to school with a bloody lip. He acts like he doesn’t get into his own share of fights.

“I was thinking about taking Ruthie Newell to get some ice cream tomorrow,” Bucky says out of nowhere.

“Did you ask her?”

“I mean, we’ve kind of been going together for a bit now. But I’ve got a dime to spare for once and thought I’d actually treat her to something. Besides my pleasant company.” He grins and bumps into Steve as they keep walking. “You think it’s a good idea?”

Steve steadies himself and watches the ground.

“Yeah, Buck, if you like her, why not?”

Bucky looks at him for a moment and smiles again. They turn the corner and cut across the park. The conversation turns to other subjects, but Steve can’t focus. All he can think about is Ruthie Newell in some nice dress sitting at the soda fountain. The park turns into a street, and they’re treading through an alley yet again. Bucky runs up a precarious stack of milk crates and hops on top of a dumpster. Steve watches him grab onto a fire escape bar and swing back down next to him. Steve shakes his head. His lungs hurt just at the thought of running.

“Hey, Buck?” he asks a few minutes later, coming to a stop beside a paint-splattered brick wall. Bucky looks at him in confusion, waiting. Steve takes a deep breath. “If you’re going steady with Ruth, does that mean that we have to stop...you know...messing around?”

“I don’t think so.” Bucky shrugs. “We’re pals, right? So who’s it gonna hurt if we kiss when it’s just the two of us? It’s just for fun.”

A wave of relief goes through Steve’s body as a tension he hadn’t realized was building up is released. He smiles, the confirmation received. For the time being, Bucky is still his. Bucky throws an arm around his shoulder and glances toward either end of the alley. With a quick sweep he steps closer into the shadows and kisses Steve, tongue darting quickly into his mouth. Steve kisses him back, running a hand through Bucky’s dark hair before they pull apart and resume their walk.

***

Steve worries the beads of the old rosary in his hand. He has not prayed since he was little and too sick to breathe, lying in bed asking God to take him or leave him. The constant pain was enough. He sets the rosary back on the bed, slipping the worn red string of beads into Sarah’s hand. She managed to keep him alive his whole life, and now here he is watching her grow more and more frail in bed, useless. She stirs, and Steve leans forward in his chair as her eyes flutter open. The room is dim and her eyes are puffy, but they fall on him and she smiles. She lets the rosary slip onto the sheets and squeezes his hand.

“Hi, Ma.” She smiles wider.

“Where did that Barnes boy get off to?”

“Bucky had to go to work, but he left some soup on the stove. Are you hungry?” She shook her head.

“He’s a good kid, that one. He does the right thing. Cares about people.”

“Yeah, Bucky’s a good pal, Ma.” She looks away for a moment, eyes focusing on the quilt covering her. Then her eyes find his, and Steve can see a different kind of pain in them.

“I’m sorry that it was just me all these years. No, don’t say anything. We got along alright, but I know it wasn’t fair that you grew up with just a mother. But I tried my best to make a good man, and with the Lord as my witness, I’m certain I did.”

“Ma—”

“This is going to be tough, Steven. This is going to hurt. But you’ve got a good head on your shoulders. You’ve got that boy to help you out. You are going to be alright, eventually. But you have to promise me to take care of yourself. Don’t run into trouble that will get you killed. Remember how important it is to rest when your body can’t take another second. Stay true to who you are, and you’ll do just fine.”

“How am I supposed to do that without you?” Steve asks, his voice shaking. He rubs the back of his hand over his face and kicks himself internally. He is supposed to be strong for her now, not the other way around.

“ _A thaisce_.” She reaches up to hold his face in her hand, and hot tears well in Steve’s eyes. “Find something to hold on to. Something that reminds you who you are when you feel the most lost.”

***

The day after the funeral, Steve lies in bed staring at the off-white ceiling. It’s the same apartment he’s lived in for years, but it feels different now, empty. He hears the front door being pushed open and briefly considers getting up. Instead, he sits up and waits, but no one comes. He hears cabinets opening in the kitchen, the tap running, a quiet curse. Eyes closed, Steve pulls himself out of bed.

Bucky is standing next to the sink rubbing his elbow and eyeing the corner cabinet ruefully. Steve almost feels like smiling. The kettle is heating on the stove.

“What are you doing here?” Steve asks.

“What’s it look like? I’m making tea.” Bucky gets two chipped mugs out of a cabinet and sets them beside the stove, not offering any more explanation. Steve figures that any attempts to tell Bucky to go home will just start a fight and ultimately be unsuccessful, so he sits at the small kitchen table and waits for his tea.

It happens slowly over that Autumn. Steve is so deep in grief that he barely notices Bucky’s things accumulating in the hall and the bathroom and on the ratty green sofa he managed to cram inside the apartment by himself. By the time Steve becomes aware of how often Bucky is there making tea in the mornings, Bucky has seamlessly moved in.

***

Steve is sitting at the kitchen table reading about questions surrounding an Impressionist exhibit. His eyes droop with sleep, but he had decided to wait until Bucky got home. He flips the page to a section about the war in Europe but doesn’t get to read it. A key is jammed into the lock and fiddled with for a few seconds before the door shoves open and Bucky appears. His dark hair is disheveled and stiff with dried sweat, the first few buttons of his shirt are undone, and his tie lies over one shoulder. He smiles when his eyes land on Steve.

“I figured you’d be asleep already. Thought you didn’t feel good.” Closing the door behind him, he steps over to the sink and pours himself a glass of water, which he downs in three gulps.

“How was it?” Steve asks, folding the newspaper and standing up. Bucky turns towards him with a lazy grin.

“It was a good night. Perfect music, lots of dames to dance with. You should come next time.”

“You know I can’t dance.”

“Yeah, but you could watch me put all the other guys to shame. And there’s lots of girls that would be willing to sit and talk all night.”

Steve leans back against the wall as Bucky refills his water. The red lipstick smeared on his collar should not bother Steve. It never has before, but tonight it makes him cross his arms and fall silent. Bucky catches him eyeing the marks.

“You jealous?” he asks, stepping across the room with a few strides.

“No,” Steve says firmly because he really has no reason to be. Bucky grins.

“You sure, Stevie?” He’s standing right in front of him now, but Steve just leans back against the wall. He won’t give Bucky the satisfaction of riling him up. He shrugs indifferently. Bucky closes the distance between them in a step. Steve can smell the sweat and perfume on his clothes, can feel his breath as he looks up at those blue eyes, stubborn.

“I don’t care who you kiss in the dance halls,” Steve says, his voice loud in the silent apartment. His hands wrap around Bucky’s hips and pull him towards him. Bucky smiles wider and leans down to kiss him. Steve tastes cigarettes as warm hands slip underneath the hem of his shirt.

***

The cold bites into Steve as he turns on the mattress. He pulls the quilt further up to his chin and pushes against Bucky’s body beside him so that their shoulders are flush together. Steve rests his head beside Bucky’s and tries to absorb the warmth radiating from him. Bucky doesn’t stir except to toss an arm across Steve’s ribs in his sleep. Listening to his soft snores, Steve is as thankful as ever to have him there. Cold nights are a good excuse to share the small twin mattress, as is the fact that they’ve been doing it for years.

Steve remembers the first time they fell asleep together, crammed onto that ugly couch Bucky loves so much, lips chapped, Steve lying half on top of Bucky. He smelled then like he smells now: cigarette smoke is seeped into his hair, and his clothes smell like the docks. It should not be a pleasant smell, bay water and must and sawdust, but it mingles with a natural undertone to just smell like Bucky. Steve wonders how long it will take for the scent to disappear from the apartment after he leaves. He didn’t notice Sarah’s vanishing years before, just realized at one point that it had gone missing. Bucky has already set aside some of his clothes, the sweaters and jackets that will keep Steve warm without hanging too large on his small frame. They are piled at the bottom of the closet, and Steve realizes that they, at least, will probably keep Bucky’s smell long after he has gone.

Bucky would kill him if he knew he was thinking like this. From the moment he was drafted, it has all been certainty and confidence that he is gonna do his time, kick the war’s ass, and come home. There is no bravado in his voice when he speaks of it, just determination. But Steve can see the fear lacing his eyes. He has caught him staring at the pile of clothes, the picture of Becca on the bureau, the tea kettle. They have both heard stories about the war. Steve keeps expecting Bucky to break down or come home blind drunk, but all he has done is start smoking twice as much and plan how Steve will get by without him.

The uniform suits him, even though he fidgets standing in the kitchen. He’s a catch and a patriot to boot. Steve shifts uncomfortably, not sure what to say. They both knew this moment was coming. Steve has thought about all the things he could say, should probably say, but he can’t make any of them come out.

“You’ll probably get stationed in Paris and spend all day annoying a bunch of French girls,” he says instead. It gets a half smile. Bucky leans down for a quick, chaste kiss.

“I’m coming back,” he says earnestly, “and when I do, we’re going dancing.”

***

Steve has never been one for drinking, and the whiskey tastes foreign in his throat as he walks home in the dark. Seven recruitment offices and six weeks without word from Bucky. Every day he spends sitting in that apartment doing nothing plants another seed of desperation. How can he stay behind when so many people are dying fighting for what he believes in? When Bucky is over there too? There’s a recruiting fair tomorrow downtown, but for now Steve lets himself wallow. He cuts into the park on his way back to the empty apartment. A man approaches him from an alcove of trees, says he looks lonely. It’s because I am, Steve thinks.

***

_May 2, 1941_

_Buck,_

_I sent the smokes you asked for. I hope it’s enough. There’s a sketch enclosed in the envelope like you wanted too. I’m sorry it’s not my best, I’ve never drawn myself before. I’d always rather practice your face, preferably sitting out on the fire escape. We were eleven when I first started sketching you, I don’t think I ever told you that. Ma used to flip through my papers, but all she ever said about yours was that the jaw wasn’t right._

_Please don’t worry about me anymore. I’ve got things covered over here, just take care of yourself. I love you. I should have told you before you left. Come home in one piece. And don’t win the war until I get there._

_Yours,_  
_S_

 

_June 13, 1941_

_Dollface,_

_It’s been awhile because it’s hard to write around here and there’s nothing worth writing about. I’d take a Brooklyn winter over a night in the trenches, that’s for sure. We’re working our asses off in the mud over here just to die. I know you don’t want to hear me say it, but it’s true. You think there’s something noble about this war, and maybe that’s true too, but it’s different when you’re the grunts, the nobodies that end up dying. There are kids out here younger than us who think they’re dying for God or their mammas when the truth is that none of us matter. Not a bit._

_I’m sorry, I guess I shouldn’t talk like that in a letter home. I miss you and the sound of the city outside the bedroom window and the docks and the mangy cat who always begs for scraps on the front steps. If it turns out there is a God, let him be merciful like your Ma always said so that I can sin over here to stay alive and still come home._

_But until I do, stay out of the recruiting offices. If by some miracle you make it over here, I’ll murder you before any Nazi gets the chance. That’s a promise._

_Till the end,_  
_Bucky_

***

“Captain?” a familiar voice calls through the rain. Steve finds Agent Carter standing in front of him, her red lipstick bright in the dreary weather.

“You can skip the stage name and call me Steve if you want,” he says with a smile that Peggy returns as she steps closer and takes a seat beside him.

“Steve, then. I didn’t think I would be seeing you out here.”

“I got so popular back home they thought the show might boost morale. Guess they were wrong.” The only thing that might make this miserable trip worth it is seeing Agent Carter again. She is as charming as ever, and Steve hasn’t been able to get her out of his head, even when the chorus girls got friendly.

“I didn’t know that you were an artist,” Peggy says, nodding towards the sketchbook in his lap. Bucky’s face stares up from the page, hair unruly like it always is first thing in the morning, lines stained by a couple rogue raindrops. “A friend of yours?”

Steve shrugs. When he sat down to draw without anything particular in mind, it was always Bucky that emerged from the paper, sketched absentmindedly, standing on a fire escape or sitting on the front steps. A friend? It feels criminal to accept the descriptor, but there is not much else he can say to explain why Bucky’s face flows so easily from his pencil.

“He’s home,” Steve says. Peggy quirks her head slightly as she searches Steve’s eyes. Steve doesn’t care. He does not have anything else to lose at this point, and there is something familiar about Peggy that he wants to trust.

“Did you know that I lived in New York for a while?” she asks. Steve looks at her, confused by the sudden change of subject.

“I don’t know much about you, Agent Carter.”

“We can change that,” she replies with a smile. “It was only for a few months, really. I was working at a training station in Manhattan. There was a diner there with absolutely wretched American food, but I grew quite fond of it. Well, fond of a particular waitress.”

The words do not connect for a moment as Steve watches Peggy study him, her expression hesitant, guarded. The information clicks in Steve’s head.

“You…?”

“It seems that witty blondes may be my type,” she says, glancing at the ground before recovering her decorum.

“I didn’t realize that you might return any feelings,” Steve says. She gives a small smile.

“After that day with the flagpole, how couldn’t I?”

Steve considers this for a moment. Everything about his life is foreign now. He spent most of his childhood in the same city, and now he is in a different body that has taken him across the world to a woman who astounds him and he still cannot fight the war and he can’t remember the last time he heard from Bucky.

“Bucky,” Steve glances at the drawing, “he’s where I’m from and where I’m going. It’s always been him and me. But I’ve never met another person like you.”

There’s is a contentedness in Peggy’s eyes. “Nor I you,” she says softly.

***

An unsent telegram addressed to Steve. Bucky, missing and not deemed worth finding. Bucky, lost. Bucky, looking up at him from a table.

***

Steve waits until the med tent is empty before he finally goes in. After all the excitement, the march back had left Bucky delirious; Steve had carried him half the way, blood leaking from Buck’s boots. He slips into the secluded corner and finds Bucky sitting up in bed, looking like he is about to get up despite the bandages covering the soles of his feet.

“Steve?” His voice is like gravel. Steve steps closer to the cot.

“Hey, Buck.” He shouldn’t be so nervous; this is just Bucky after all, but Steve knows that he is not the scrawny kid Bucky left back in Brooklyn.

“I thought you were a hallucination back there in the dark. I can’t remember how I got here. What in God’s name happened to you?”

“It’s a long story,” Steve says, because he is not sure that science fiction-esque tales are what Bucky needs right now.

“You’re too tall. C’mon, sit down and let me look at you.” Steve obliges and sits carefully on the edge of the cot, which squeaks beneath his new weight. “Hell,” Bucky says as his eyes travel up Steve’s shoulders and face to study his eyes, “I shoulda known you’d sell your soul to get into this fight.”

“I missed you,” Steve replies. Bucky is still studying him, unsure eyes searching Steve’s.

“Are you still you? You’re not a trick?” It strikes Steve that Bucky was not strapped to that table without reason. He could not get there in time to stop the torture. “You saved me,” Bucky says, as if reading Steve’s mind. His voice is firm like when he used to tell Steve to shut up about wanting to work on the docks.

“Till the end of the line, right? It goes both ways.” The shock is wearing off, Steve thinks. Bucky grabs his hand, face regaining a hint of that buoyant charm as he smiles.

“Just like you to go runnin’ blind into the first fight you see.”

“I love you, Buck.” Steve shakes his head. “I’ve loved you since we were kids. You are love to me. It’s you.”

Bucky closes his eyes, and it is like when he used to put his face towards the sky as they waited for the sun to rise over the fire escape, Steve watching each beam wash over Bucky’s face and paint it golden. Bucky opens his eyes smiling.

“Well then, are you gonna kiss me or what, doll?”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!!
> 
> [Buy me a coffee if you enjoyed it?](https://ko-fi.com/L4L4WBXK#)
> 
> xoxo


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